Authors: Kristin Hardy
“A condom? Bax, you must have been a Boy Scout,” she purred, taking it from him. She took him in her fist, stroking her hand over him from root to tip until he stiffened. “Well, you’re hard enough to put it on, but maybe not slippery enough.” Then she knelt on her jeans and slid him into her mouth, alternately licking him and rolling on the latex until he was sweating and grinding his teeth to keep from coming.
Then she stood and leaned back against the side of the
R.
“Now,” she whispered, and wrapped one leg around his waist as he pressed against her.
Bax held his cock in one hand, his fingers sliding into her slick folds, rubbing her sweet juices down over himself. He traced the tip of his cock over her clitoris, running across it, down it, circling, over and over.
Joss moaned. Reaching up over her head, she touched the lowest of the steel rungs that climbed up the side of the letter. Her hand gripped the bar, pulling herself up so she could wrap her other leg around Bax’s waist. “Put your cock in me. I want to feel it,” she panted.
And in one swift push of his hips, he was inside her.
It was better than any buzz he’d ever had, the feel of having her wrapped around him, tight and hot and wet, so wet. Knowing how aroused she was, knowing that he had aroused her intensified the feel of every stroke. He looked down and watched his cock slide in and out of her. He could never get tired of this, seeing it, feeling it, hearing the cries she couldn’t keep from making. When the sensory onslaught dragged him toward the edge, he resisted, changing his motion to prolong the experience. He pressed his finger against her mouth and slipped it between her lips, feeling her suck on him. Then he pulled it out and slipped it between her other lips, feeling her clitoris standing out in a hard, slick nub. He stroked it in time
with the stroke of his cock, feeling her shudder, hearing her stifled moan.
And when she flushed and began the gulping, gasping cries that he knew heralded her orgasm, he abandoned control, surging against her hard and fast and deep until it launched him into climax with her.
T
HE TOUR BOAT
dock was a stone’s throw from the Royal Viking. Joss had watched the low, white, glassed-in boats navigate in and out of the little inlet by the hotel, alternately taking in and disgorging their crowds of passengers. Now, she and Bax stood in line at the kiosk to buy tickets of their own.
“First the museum, now a tour boat?” Joss asked. “This isn’t just an excuse for sightseeing with you, is it?”
“Our friend is out in the archipelago, so we ought to get oriented. And you never know what you might learn on a tour like this. It’s worth doing,” Bax said, picking up the tickets that the counter clerk passed over. “We might learn something.”
They wandered over to stand at the gate to the dock. The clouds that had blown in earlier had brought a light drizzle with them that had the happy effect of discouraging sightseers. Instead of the normal crowd, she and Bax stood among a small handful of tourists lined up waiting for the flat, white boat to arrive.
It chugged merrily toward them, churning up a froth of whitewater with its blunt bow. As the boat neared the dock, gradually slowing, a young deckhand appeared on the prow with a line. He gathered himself as the landing neared and leaped across several feet of open water to gain the dock and make the ropes fast.
Even though it was just a quick water tour of Stockholm, Joss couldn’t suppress a little charge of excitement.
She ought to be above it, she told herself as they lined up to board. After all, she was in Stockholm for serious business. Hadn’t that just been graphically demonstrated to her?
But it was the first time she’d been somewhere foreign, other than Africa, somewhere historic. Surely it was understandable for her to want to enjoy herself just a little bit, wasn’t it? After all, they were going on the boat whether she liked it or not. Having fun would be the best use of time and money.
The little tour boat sat low in the water. A narrow central aisle threaded through the ranks of padded crosswise benches that bracketed narrow tables, like a series of restaurant booths. Headsets hanging on hooks on the tables played the tour narration in a dozen languages. Bax chose a seat up front and the boat was thinly populated enough that they had their entire booth to themselves.
Joss put on her headset and looked around. The whole top of the boat seemed to be made of Plexiglas. The windows rose from beside them and curved over to form the top of the boat, allowing them an unimpeded view on nearly all sides as the vessel backed out and began to chug away from Gamla Stan.
They headed east past the island Djurgården with its amusement park and open-air museum. The swells were larger here, sweeping in from the outer margins of the archipelago.
“If we keep going this direction, we’ll find ourselves out by Silverholmen,” Bax murmured to her.
“We’ll have to go out there eventually, won’t we?” she asked as the boat came around and headed for the pass between Gamla Stan and Södermalm, the SoHo of Stockholm.
“Probably. First, we’ve got to find a boat.”
“Do you know how to pilot a boat?”
“It’s been a little while, but yeah. I can navigate too, if I need to, but most boats come with GPS units these days. Takes away some of the guesswork.”
The boat slowed as it went under a bridge and in between the high stone walls. Joss frowned and put on her headset.
“And now,” announced the recorded narration, “we will proceed into the locks that will allow us to enter Lake Mälaren, at a different level than the Baltic.”
The tour boat moved slowly into the lock, stopping and idling by the high stone walls. The pilot looked forward and back to check his position. The mate stepped lithely out of the forward hatch of the boat and up onto the transparent roof over their heads. Guide rope in hand, he vaulted onto the stone sidewall of the lock, walking nonchalantly along, directing the boat.
There was a careless efficiency to his movements that belied his skill as he guided the tour boat to the proper position and tied it down as the water level changed. Slowly, a hair-thin crack of daylight appeared at the center of the massive gates of the lock, widening as they parted, moving smoothly and ponderously backward. Finally, they had moved completely out of the way, leaving the path clear. The deckhand unwound the rope from its cleat to let the boat move forward, leaping lightly onto the foredeck at the last minute.
As they moved onto Lake Mälaren, the mate came back into the main cabin. He collapsed onto the seat opposite Joss and Bax and grinned. “All the work is done for a while.” He was in his early twenties, with disordered spiky dark blond hair and a charcoal sweater that had probably seen better days.
“Hard work?” Joss asked.
“I’m outside all the time and on the water,” he said with a shrug. “It is not so difficult a life.”
“It’s so beautiful, here.” Joss gestured to the tree-covered slopes of Södermalm and the smaller island of Lang-holmen. “Stockholm is gorgeous.”
“Ah, if you want to see true beauty, go out to the archipelago,” he said. “No buildings, just islands and sea.”
Joss felt Bax come to attention, though he looked as outwardly relaxed as ever. “How would you suggest we get there?”
“You would have to get a ferry in the Nybroplan or perhaps Slussen. It depends where you wish to go.”
“The central archipelago, probably. A small island between Nämdö and Bullerö.”
The mate tipped his head and looked at them consideringly. “Sightseeing?”
“Could be,” Bax answered. “What if we wanted to pilot ourselves? Is it difficult to navigate the archipelago?”
“In places, of course. There are shallows or narrow passes between islands. Charts help. Do you have experience boating?”
“With launches and speedboats, not with sailboats.”
“Motorboats are best, here.”
“I will need help finding a place to rent one.”
“Maybe I can help you out.” The kid grinned and stuck out his hand. “I am Oskar. My friend and I have a boat. We do some deliveries to the archipelago. Perhaps we can do business.”
“I’m Johan and this is Josie.”
“A pleasure to meet you both.” He put his hand out to shake.
Behind them, the pilot turned and barked something in Swedish. Oskar answered in the same and turned to them. “He tells me not to socialize with the passengers, that I am boring you, perhaps.”
“Not at all. I think it’s been a very interesting conversation, indeed,” Bax said. “I’d like to continue it.”
“As would I. Alas, we are approaching the lock to return to the Baltic. I must attend to my job.”
“We all have to, sooner or later. Say I wanted to reach you about a boat. How would I contact you?”
Oskar considered. The pilot barked at him again and he took a quick glance behind him. “There is a restaurant called Pelikan on Södermalm. You can find me there most nights after work.”
Bax nodded. “I might need information, also.”
“I know much about the archipelago and many people. I can help you find out whatever you need.” He touched his fingers to his forehead and was off and through the hatch.
Joss leaned in toward Bax as the tour boat lined up behind the other boats waiting at the lock. “Well, wasn’t that convenient. ‘Let’s go on a boat tour and get oriented?’”
“Serendipity is a wonderful thing.”
Joss gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Remember the whole talk about partners? If you were looking for specific information on this trip, you should have told me.”
He digested it for a moment. “You’re right,” he said finally. “And I’m sorry. The thing is, I don’t always have a goal, at least not one I’m conscious of. Sometimes I just do things on gut instinct, because they seem right. All I can say is I’ll tell you what I can, when I can.”
“I think that’s good enough for me,” Joss said. “And now, I suppose, we need to figure out where Pelikan is, right?”
Bax grinned. “You read my mind.”
T
HE CEILING
of the Stockholm convention center exhibit hall arched high overhead as Joss and Bax dodged the foot traffic in the aisles at the stamp expo. She’d known that philately was a popular hobby, but it had never occurred to her that thousands of people would flock to a stamp convention on a gorgeous summer Saturday in Stockholm, where warm weather was fleeting. It had also never occurred to her that so many stamp dealers existed in the world. Unlike her grandfather, who specialized in investment and did a small storefront trade, most of the exhibitors did the bulk of their business with casual hobbyists.
“What is the name of your sister’s friend, again?” Bax asked her.
“Ray Halliday. Booth 1057,” she read from her exhibit guide.
Bax scanned row signs hanging overhead and pointed. “Down there.”
The booth for Halliday Philately was large and colorful, with a backdrop covered in blowups of famous stamps. Joss stopped to stare into a glass case displaying tongs and humidifiers for removing stamps from envelopes.
A spare-looking man in a white polo shirt approached them. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Ray Halliday,” Joss told him.
He smoothed back his slightly frizzy red hair. “That’s me.”
Joss put out her hand. “I’m Joss Chastain, Gwen Chastain’s sister. This is my friend Bax.”
“Yes, of course.” He shook hands with both of them. “Gwen e-mailed me you might be stopping by. Why isn’t she here?”
“Too much going on,” Joss said. “Someone had to mind the store.”
“And you’re the lucky devil who got stuck coming to Stockholm.”
Joss grinned. “Someone had to suffer. Gwen said you might be able to help us with some information.”
“Sure, whatever I can.” What looked like a father and son stopped in the booth and Halliday glanced at Joss. “Give me a minute, will you?” He crossed to the pair and began chatting with them.
Bax glanced at him. “So how well does Gwen know this guy?”
“I gather she’s been doing business with him for some time. She trusts him.”
“She also trusted Oakes,” Bax pointed out.
“So did my entire family. There’s always the chance that someone’s going to screw you over,” Joss said. “Halliday sounds like a person who keeps his mouth shut and might be able to give us information that we need. It’s worth taking a risk.”
“If you say so.”
Joss glanced over at Halliday. The discussion with the father and son had turned animated and he was pulling out stamp albums to show them. Finally, he broke loose and crossed back over to Bax and Joss. “Listen, I’d love to talk with you but I need to take care of these two first. You know how it goes.”
“The customer comes first,” Joss told him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“What about if we talk over dinner tonight, instead? Are you free?”
Joss looked at Bax and nodded. “Sure.”
“Great. Say, seven-thirty at Fredsgatan 12? It’s this great restaurant near the Royal Academy of Fine Arts. It’ll be my treat.”
“Too good an offer to turn down,” Joss said. “We’ll see you then.”
T
HERE WAS SOMETHING
fascinating about seeing a woman dress for the outside world, Bax thought as he watched Joss slide into a low-cut red and gold patterned dress. Seeing her go from bare skin and a towel to the silks and satins and little pots and bottles of mysterious girl stuff that smelled so good…he couldn’t help but be intrigued.
She walked over to stand in front of him and turned around. “Can you zip me up?”
There was a familiarity to the gesture that floored him temporarily as he pulled up the zipper, watching the dress mold itself to her body. Unzipping a woman’s dress was about sex. Zipping it was about…it was about intimacy, he realized in sudden discomfort. He’d been on that particular battleground before and the scars were still tender. Time to back away.
“All set,” he said briskly and breathed a sigh of relief as she walked to the vanity area. Still, he couldn’t keep from watching her apply her makeup and hold her jewelry against herself to choose exactly the right look. He didn’t recognize the feeling as proprietary because he’d worked so hard to avoid any emotional connection to a woman—to anyone—for so long.
The phone rang. Bax looked at Joss, who nodded, and he picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Ah, Johan. Keeping a close eye on your client, I see.” It was Markus.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Your job appears to have extra benefits this time around…although it is unwise to overindulge.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. What do you want?”
“I have spoken with my employer and he has decided to meet with you.”
“With the two of us, you mean.”
“Yes, of course,” Markus said impatiently.
“All right. Where?”
“Mr. Silverhielm’s city office.”
Bax snorted. “Neutral ground, Markus. You know how this works.”
“One would think you do not trust us.”
“One would be right,” Bax agreed. “Neutral ground, a public place.”
“Such as?”
Bax considered various candidates and rejected them. “How about Skansen?”
“You wish to be a tourist, now?”
“I think it would be a good location. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I like it.” An outdoor museum that collected together historic buildings from all over Sweden, Skansen was public, open and on a Sunday afternoon would very likely have just enough people to prevent any funny business while affording some empty space to talk.
“Mr. Silverhielm will not find that satisfactory.”
“If he wants the goods, he will. Tell him it’s a chance to get back in touch with his culture.”
Markus’s only response was a snort. “A moment,
please.” There was quiet murmuring in the background, then Markus returned. “Mr. Silverhielm says he will be indulgent. This time. Where in the park shall we meet?”
“How about at the temperance hall?”
“How very appropriate—9:00 p.m.?”
“Daylight.”
“This is Stockholm in August, 9:00 p.m. is daylight.”
“Broad daylight. Let’s make it earlier, say seven.”
“Private business needs to remain private, you know that.”
“It’ll be private enough, I guarantee.” And every concession he pushed Markus into gave him that much more authority.
“All right, seven at Skansen. See that it is just the two of you.”
“See that it is just the two of you.”
“For a well-known figure like Mr. Silverhielm, bodyguards are an unfortunate necessity,” Markus said smoothly.
“Not at the meeting,” Bax persisted.
“It is a matter of safety.”
“My point, exactly. He should be safe enough with you watching over him.”
Markus chuckled. “You flatter me. Very well, no bodyguards, then. Do we have a meet?”
“We do.”
“Until tomorrow.”
“We’ll see you then.” Bax hung up the phone and turned to Joss, who stared at him.
“So?”
“A meeting at Skansen. Markus and Silverhielm. Now we just have to figure out what happens next.”
Bax rubbed his knuckles along the edge of his jaw. He had a germ of an idea, but no real understanding of how
to make it work. Somehow, they needed to tempt Silverhielm into bringing out his one-penny Mauritius, and do it without risking the Blue Mauritius. “Maybe we’ll get a fix on what happens next when we talk with Gwen’s friend tonight. Speaking of which,” he glanced at his watch, “we’ve got about half an hour to get there.”
“Then I guess we don’t have time to fool around, do we?”
She smelled of seduction and his body tightened. “Depends on how efficient we are.”
She twined her arms around his neck. “Oh, I can be very efficient when I want to.”
T
HE RESTAURANT
was open and airy with slate-violet walls and minimalist decor. The food at Fredsgatan 12 was minimalist, too, Joss discovered. The menu dispensed with quaint notions of starter and entrée, serving up exquisitely flavorful and astoundingly expensive dishes of just a few bites each. “You’ll want four or five dishes,” their severely dressed server said breezily.
“Get whatever you like,” Halliday said expansively as he chose a bottle of wine. “Dinner’s on me.”
“We can’t do that,” Joss objected, staring at the menu.
“Of course you can. It’s a business expense. I’ve done some good business with Chastain’s. Buying you dinner is the least I can do.”
“I take it you had a successful day?” Joss asked after they’d ordered.
Halliday nodded. “Good traffic, actually.”
“I wouldn’t have thought it,” Joss said. “The weather is so gorgeous now I expected people to stay outside enjoying it.”
“Ah, but true collectors are a different breed. It’s all about the acquisition. Nothing else matters nearly as much, not even a sunny Saturday in August.”
Interested, Bax leaned forward. “Tell us more about the psychology of a collector.”
“Psychology? Pathology, more like it, depending on who you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on, surely it’s not that bad,” Joss disagreed.
The waiter appeared with the wine. “It depends,” Halliday said, nodding at the bottle the waiter displayed to him. “You get all kinds. There are the harmless ones, like the pair who were in my booth today. They’re excited about it and they enjoy it. It’s something a father and son can do together. They learn about history and geography and enjoy themselves, but it doesn’t run them. You can see the place it holds in their lives, just like you can see it in the eyes of the other ones.” He took a sip of the wine the waiter brought for him and nodded.
“What other ones?” Bax asked.
“You know, the obsessives. For them, it’s not about the process. It’s not about the learning, it’s not about gradual growth of the collection. Their obsession is having, and having more than anyone else.” Halliday watched the waiter fill their glasses. “You’ll see them throw away all their money on stamps, go into debt, even, pay tens or hundreds of thousands for a stamp, just to have it.”
“But Gwen has plenty of customers who pay those prices as an investment,” Joss objected, then sampled her wine.
Halliday shook his head. “Different thing. I’m talking about the ones who have to have. For some of them, nothing is too much. I had a client a couple of years back who was fixated on the Inverted Jenny. You know, the U.S. airmail stamps where they printed the plane upside down? He couldn’t get enough of them, had a standing order for me to buy one any time I found it available, no mater how inflated the cost and no matter how many he already had.”
“Are collectors always experts?” Bax asked.
“Some, not always. Sometimes they’re so busy obsessing over having that they never really learn all the details. At least, not the kinds of details known by those whose passion is in the collecting process.”
“Interesting. So talk to me about forgeries,” Bax said as the waiter set their first dishes before them. “Do you see a lot of them out there?”
“Oh, some. They’re always out there for the people who aren’t smart.”
“Like the obsessives?”
“Hopefully the obsessives have a trustworthy dealer to take care of them. Besides, any moderately intelligent person buying a stamp these days expects to see certification on the property.”
“Of course, certifications can be forged, also.”
“They can, for the person who’s sufficiently determined. You hear about it occasionally.”
“Are most forgeries made from scratch?”
“Fewer than you’d think. Some of them are antiques, and collectable themselves, ironically. Most of what you see as forgeries is really doctored up versions of existing stamps. The change in value of a stamp in good condition versus one in fair condition is pretty steep. You get stamp doctors who can add back gum and things to make a stamp look mint.”
“What about forgeries of rare stamps?” Bax asked, watching him intently.
“How rare?”
“Oh, say, a Blue Mauritius.”
Halliday gave Bax a long look. “The whereabouts of all the existing Post Office Mauritius stamps are known. A person coming up with a forgery would be taking a big gamble.”
“What if a person wanted to gamble?” Bax asked softly. “Could you get me a forgery?”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve asking me a question like that,” Halliday began angrily.
“Ray,” Joss put her fingertips on his arm, “you know what happened with my grandfather’s stamps. Gwen and I have hired Bax to help us. Please.” She moistened her lips. “We need your help.”
Halliday slowly studied her, then moved his gaze to study Bax. “All right. Well, first, a convincing forgery would require a good plate. One way to do it would be to find a person who could produce a new plate from a photograph. They use lasers, I understand. They’d have to doctor it, color match the inks, get the right paper and gum. It’s not an easy process.”
“But doable?”
Halliday nodded slowly. “I suppose. Another way is to do a reprint from the original plate.”
“I would have thought they would have long since been destroyed.”
“You’d be surprised. The original plates for the Post Office Mauritius pair still exist but they’re not in a museum. They’re reputed to be in the hands of a private collector. Perhaps they are. And perhaps that collector might rent them out to an ambitious forger for the right price.”
Halliday took a sip of his wine. “Of course, even with the original plates, you’d have the same problems of inks, paper and gum. It’s not a simple thing to find what you seek.”
“Could you help us?” Joss asked, fighting the urge to hold her breath.
Halliday stared at her. “Perhaps you’d better tell me what this is all about.”
D
USK WAS DARKENING
to evening as Bax and Joss walked back to the Royal Viking. “So, what did you think of Fredsgatan 12?” he asked her.
“The food was wonderful, but I feel like stopping somewhere to get dinner, now. Do you know I calculated that the two scallops in my fish dish cost about twelve dollars each?”
“Maybe lemon juice is more expensive here.”
She stuck her tongue in her cheek. “That must be it. Anyway, it was nice of Ray to treat us. We owe him.”